


Immersion Therapy

by justlikeyouimagined



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Polar (2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking, Gun Kink, Hate Sex, JustFuckMeUp, M/M, Mistaken Identity, S&M, and he's not having it, and very into it, ducan is remarkably forgiving, unconventional therapy, will thinks hannibal has moved in as his neighbor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeyouimagined/pseuds/justlikeyouimagined
Summary: Kaisergram: Will moves into Camille's old cabin and mistakes Duncan for his murder husband, escaped from the BSHCI. When he angrily confronts 'Hannibal', he finds Duncan to be remarkably accomodating. They work some shit out.JustFuckMeUp 2019 Fest entry!





	Immersion Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> My first Kaisergram, inspired by a brief chat ages ago with nephila_clavipes (thanks, dude!)

Duncan wakes with a start. His first sharp inhale tells him he isn't alone, well before he can focus his vision. When he does, it’s on the muzzle of a gun - just for a moment - and then to the pained eyes of who he instantly recognizes as his neighbour.

“What is your fucking game?” The words hiss out. The man’s face twists with emotion.

There’s a loaded Sig Sauer under the pillow, but he doesn’t reach for it. He's developed a sense for when immediate action is needed, and this isn't it. The man before him seethes with anger, his chest is heaving and his eyes glassy. This is too personal to be another hit.

He might not need his gun at all, if he can play it right. He keeps his body relaxed while his mind winds up, considering his options. 

Duncan leans his head back from the gun, but the man is relentless: he kneels onto the bed so that he can press the gun forcefully into his forehead. It’s ice cold. He’s probably been standing outside his cabin for some time.

His hand is relatively steady, though still he wraps his left around the exposed grip, thumb resting just below the other. It doesn’t matter his skill, this would be a guaranteed kill shot.  _Ok_ _,_ he thinks _, let's settle down._  

His neighbor must read his lack of alarm. His lips curl.

“What,” the man asks again, pressing the gun harder into bone, “the fuck,” his lips snarl around the words, “are you doing, Hannibal?”

 _Hannibal_.

Oh.

In his mind, a flurry of evening news updates, leading stories in the Times and USA Today and even Montana’s Billings Gazette for the past year: Hannibal the Cannibal, The Chesapeake Ripper, caught by FBI, on trial for an impressive number of deaths, found not guilty by reason of insanity.

The resemblance had not gone unnoticed.  

“You’re the special agent - the murder husband,” he says, pulling more headlines from his memory. His voice is rough from lack of use. He doesn't leave the cabin much unless he has to. Not after Camille left, without warning, her cabin selling and the man before him moving in a few weeks back.

There’s a flash of confusion, quickly replaced with a deep, burning anger. The agent - _Graham, was it? -_ backhands him with the side of the gun. Duncan barely has time enough to shift to lessen the force of its impact. A sharp bursting pain erupts from his cheek, radiating nearly immediately to cover the whole right side of his face.

“Don’t. _Don’t you fucking dare.”_ He shows his teeth, spitting the words against Duncan’s split cheek.

It’s more out of a sense of curiosity - perhaps a loneliness he hasn't admitted to himself - that Duncan doesn't make a move for his own weapon. So maybe this is a hit, of a type. But not on him. And it’s definitely personal. There are other ways to handle things.

Duncan sighs, a world-weary exhale, and considers a half dozen ways to disarm Graham. Instead, he slowly moves his hand up to his face, just shy of where Graham has repositioned the gun, and collects the mess of too-long silver hair that's fallen over his missing eye, tucking it behind his ear.

The lighting is dim, but he sees well enough to pick up Graham's reactive blink when he reveals the scarred mess where his left eye had once been. 

The gun slips, a fraction of an inch.

Duncan interprets this as progress, and - with the same careful pace - moves his arm down to grip the edge of the blankets. He keeps his eye on Graham while he pulls them back, revealing himself naked and littered in scars, more new than old. His retirement gifts.

Graham hesitates, but eventually his eyes flick down, then lock onto Duncan's visible history. His gaze then shoots to places where he is uninjured: right cheek, lower leg.

Compare and contrast.

“What the…” he trails off, lowering the gun by degrees as reality sets in. His eyes are bright, wavering.

“My name is Duncan,” he explains, endlessly patient while Graham processes what lays before him. When the gun is half-lowered, he asks, “Okay if I get my shorts?”

He watches Graham slowly come to and he snaps back, whipping the gun away and tucking it into the back of his slacks. “Fuck. Jesus. I- I'm sorry.”

Duncan moves carefully, but less nervously around his bed, slipping on a pair of boxers. He feels Graham's gaze burning along his back.

“You drink whiskey?” he asks calmly, turning back to confirm Graham is still staring at him, dumbfounded.

Graham rubs furiously at his eyes, scratches the scruff that grows in bursts around his jawline. When he forces himself to look up to Duncan, it is with wild disbelief. He swallows, nods his head down and keeps it there to stare at the bare boards that line the cabin's floor.

Duncan shuffles towards the kitchen, the poorly-healed muscles in his calf tight upon first awakening. He doesn't bother with ice, pours two generous doubles.

“So the resemblance is as striking in person as in print?” he asks, holding the glass out to Graham before easing himself down into his usual chair.

Graham takes a hearty gulp, perches on the edge of the tattered sofa facing the now-dead fireplace.

“Unimaginably so,” he says. He hides it relatively well, but Duncan notices his gaze strays away from the bridge of his nose, now and again, to try to look where his eye should be.

They sit in silence for a short while; both seemingly more comfortable with it than is reasonably appropriate. Duncan isn’t sure what he could say, in a situation like this. Still, he doesn’t necessarily want him to go.

Graham empties his glass with a couple more large sips. His eyes flick to the bottle in the kitchen, so Duncan takes his cue and issues him a refill without hesitation. Boy needs the relaxation, he ventures.

“I should have known it wasn’t him,” he says at last, halfway through his second drink. “That I thought he was my _fucking_ neighbor. Just - again, I’m sorry. You know what - I should go. It’s late and-”

Duncan cuts him off. “I don’t want you to go.”

Graham's face distorts; he lets out a huff. “It probably isn’t doing me any good, being around someone that looks so much like him.”

“What are your thoughts on immersive therapy?” he jokes, remembering some tidbit about Hannibal having been a therapist of some sort. He’s not entirely sure it’s smart goading this man on when he’s still armed, but then again he _did_ apologize.

Thankfully, Graham laughs, a short self-conscious sound. “I’m not sure we’d both survive immersive therapy.”

Duncan’s chest gets tight at the suggestion. He smiles, politely, but doesn’t accept the deferral. “Left things on a bad note then?” he asks. 

“An understatement.” Graham drains his glass for a second time. He lets a sad smile creep around the corners of his lips. “I told him I didn’t want to think about him ever again. That I wouldn’t miss him.”

Duncan moves forward, holding the bottle of whiskey out in offer. Graham licks the alcohol off his lips and nods, holding his glass out again.

“I take it you’ve been thinking about him?” he asks. He takes another small sip, savoring the smooth, smokey flavor as it slides over his tongue. He finishes his first glass for the other man’s three.

Graham sighs heavily into his glass. “Every day.”

“Is it revenge you think about?”

He's silent for a minute, staring into the middle distance as though he might find clarity there. “That doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Duncan smiles, recognizing a kindred spirit make a home somewhere in the belly of his neighbor. “Tell me,” he asks simply, and finds he means it.

Graham looks at him, though he suspects he’s seeing less Duncan and more his well-tailored companion - posed gracefully in a bespoke suit that always seemed a little too garish for the courtroom. He wonders whether Graham sees him with both eyes, or if - even this moment - he might be picturing plucking Hannibal’s from its socket so his memory better matches reality.  
  
He shrugs, a sort of _You asked for this_ mannerism. “I want to make him suffer. He toyed with me because he was _curious,_ ” he spits the last word. “He turned himself in because he wanted to make sure I knew where he was. When I _told him_ -”

He stops himself.

Duncan takes a step forward, slowly. The prickly rage that boils just under the man’s alcohol-glazed surface is something to be respected. Admired. He’d like to help him work it out.

“You want to make him feel like he made you feel,” Duncan surmises.

Graham snarls, and stands. He pulls his shirt up to reveal a long, jagged scar just above his navel. His hand moves to his forehead, revealing a neater white edge of scar tissue across below his curls. “Sometimes, I just - I wish he had a physical reminder of it like I do.”

The glass in his hand shakes, the liquid nearly spilling. He notices and takes one final gulp to finish it off, then puts the glass too roughly down onto the table. Duncan has a fleeting urge to take hold of his fingers to settle the man’s nerves.

“And here I figured folks would be nice and dull around these parts,” he jokes.

Graham smiles easier now, with a tender warmth that tugs at a lonely piece inside Duncan. “I’m trying very hard to be dull. I don’t think I can ever be nice.”

Duncan hums his appreciation at the response. They look at each other, each searching for something and not finding it. His hands now empty, Graham begins to fidget, his fingers running along the edges of the sofa, tracing its history of every knick in the wood and snag in the fabric. Duncan watches - the way they move, the casual possessiveness of his touch - he swallows back an inappropriate reaction.

“My offer stands, if you think it would help,” he says.

Confusion flashes over his neighbor’s face before it is replaced with an unbelieving skepticism. “Immersive therapy?” he asks incredulously.

“You seem in need of a way of working through your feelings towards this man - Hannibal.”

Duncan takes another step forward. He can smell the alcohol heavy on Graham’s breath.

He feels Graham’s eyes sweep over the scars that mar Duncan’s face, torso, arms. Everywhere not covered by his boxers is a used canvas. “Are these -” he motions to the whole of Duncan’s body “were they consensual then?”

He lets out a chuckle. “Almost entirely not, I’m afraid.” 

Duncan then reaches out for Graham's hand, covers it with his own. Slowly, he draws his fingers over to touch a series of short, shallow scars that are nearly hidden under the greying chest hair. “These. These were.”

Graham's inhale is noticeably sharp; his fingers flinch and then move of their own accord along Duncan’s bare chest. “And here I figured folks would be nice and dull around these parts,” he echoes Duncan’s previous comment. His eyes gleam suggestively.

“I suppose we were both mistaken.” He takes a half step closer, making his hand press flat against his breast. Underneath, his heart beats faster than it had a moment before.

It’s been a while. He should get out more.

Graham’s tongue slips from between his lips to wet them. A familiar heat begins to warm his belly as he watches him consider.

“Am I right in thinking that the people that did this to you - the nonconsensual scars, at least - they don’t bother you anymore?”

“If you’re asking whether I can hold my own, I’d like to think I still have some fight in me. If you want that.”

Graham pulls away suddenly, shocked out of a moment. “No, no -I. I didn’t mean that. I think we’re misunderstanding one another…” he trails off, a clear look of disappointment mingling with a deep sense of embarrassment.

In the space opened up between them, Duncan holds up his hands, wrists together as if already bound. “I only offered it if it would be of any…. therapeutic value. I don’t need to fight against it, if that’s what you want.”

Graham closes his eyes as though he’d been slapped. He sways - just a fraction - before widening his stance to steady himself. From his reaction, Duncan gets the impression that Hannibal wasn’t one to relinquish control so freely.

He nods before he can make the words come out. “This is a wildly bad idea,” Graham says at last, but can’t help from taking a step towards Duncan’s half-naked body.

Duncan inhales the warmth of another so close. His body sings for any contact.

“Indulge one request?” he begins, “I would feel better if you unloaded your gun.”

A reckless smile bursts forth onto Graham’s face, and Duncan can’t help but mimic it. The tension that had been building between them temporarily deflates. Graham pulls out his gun and unloads it easily, setting the rounds down onto a nearby table. He moves to put the gun down as well, but hesitates at the last second. 

Without looking up, he asks, “Give me a safeword.”

Duncan vibrates with anticipation. “Camille,” he says, without hesitation.

He nods once, “Good.” He nods again, though it’s more to himself this time.

The next movement he makes is sloppy - Duncan would have been able to block it if he was of a mind to. He doesn't. A fraction of a second after the butt of Graham's gun makes solid contact with the side of his face, he feels it bloom with bright near-debilitating pain. Duncan’s head whips around with the force of the blow, and it spins his body in its wake. He collapses onto the sofa beside them.

If this were a fair fight, he couldn’t take the time he does then to appreciate the way his head hammers with thunderous hurt. But that isn’t what this is, and so he closes his eyes and embraces the sensation, listens to the flat ringing in his ears until he can once again hear his surroundings.

Duncan looks up, regarding the man who now towers over him. His shoulders heave and he adjusts his stance as though to pounce, but he doesn’t make another move. The reality of what he’s just done to Duncan - to a _stranger_ \- gradually comes to focus behind his angry eyes.

Wiping the blood from his mouth, Duncan massages the tender point of impact, just below his empty socket. “Did that help?” he asks, then spits a mouthful of blood.

“Yes,” Graham says, surprised.

“Then why did you stop?”

Graham prowls forward. His hands nimbly unbuckle his belt and he pulls it out through the loops. Duncan takes his time standing.

“I want you on the bed,” he growls. There is a moment of hesitation before he adds, “Is that okay?”

In response, Duncan lunges forward, smashing their teeth together in a rough kiss. Graham’s mouth immediately contaminates with blood, and his tongue pushes forward looking for more. He lets out a low, needy groan, then claws at the scared flesh of Duncan’s side.

They stumble past the couch and clumsily cover the few feet separating the living room from the bed. Graham’s need, his confidence, seems to grow with each step and quickly he takes over from Duncan. When Duncan knocks up against the edge of the mattress, he pushes him full force down onto the bed.

Duncan breathes heavily below Graham, waiting. Graham’s gaze is contemptuous. He unbuttons and removes his shirt.

“I want you naked,” he commands, forcefully this time.

Duncan complies. He lays, sprawled out and vulnerable, waiting for the next move. It’s too soon to know whether this will prove an irrational mistake, but there’s something enchanting about the simmering hate behind this man’s eyes. Revenge is too uncomplicated a word for what his neighbor is feeling.

Graham slips the gun from his slacks, then unzips and slides out of them. He leaves his boxers on - Duncan can’t tell if it’s a show of dominance or uncertainty. But then he lifts a knee up onto the bed, and the way he moves leaves no question: it’s the unconscious slink of a predator set upon a helpless prey. He shifts and slithers over Duncan, eventually coming to sit over him, just above his belly. Already, he can feel his ribs aching in protest.

Graham sits overtop him for a long time, his hand gripped hard around the gun. He manages to radiate a buzzing energy while remaining utterly still.

“You can call me his name. If you want. To work something out, I mean,” Duncan offers. He’s been so many people in his life, being called something else doesn’t phase him anymore. And Graham looks like he has things he needs to say.

This time, the slap comes from the left, blossoming a pink bruise that prickles in an almost pleasnt way. The pain in his face is uneven, hands versus guns.

“You’re holding back." He works his sore jaw around in small circles.

“You don’t want that?” Graham asks, seemingly taken-aback.

“It’s okay.” Duncan says.  
  
Graham nods, and that’s that.

He shoves the end of the barrel hard against Duncan’s lips. “Open,” Graham growls out. His hand is visibly shaking now. “Open the fuck up, Hannibal.”

A sparking arousal ignites in him, and he slowly opens his mouth wide. He tastes hard plastic polymer and remnant powder before the barrel is shoved past his tongue, lodging deep so his throat begins to spasm around it. He makes a sudden loud gagging noise, his cough unable to dislodge what’s held so firmly down. His eyes immediately prick with tears and he takes a centering deep inhale from his nose so that he might feel his way past the immediate sense of being choked in order to calm his convulsing muscles.

“I had wanted to come with you,” Graham begins, twisting the gun unkindly so it scrapes the inside of his mouth. “Then again...when I saw you kneeling on that driveway… I damn near shot you in front of everyone.”

Duncan has gained some control over his reflexes now, keeps the walls of his throat relaxed, and the push of bile up from his stomach retreats. Still, his vision is blurry - he can’t help certain physical reactions. He tries to blink back the tears, but instead feels one slide hotly down over the side of his face. His hands clench at the covers.

Graham moves to withdraw the gun. He pulls it out so far that Duncan can flick his tongue over the barrel’s opening, taste the warming bitterness. The insides of his thighs feel hot, ache like from a long fever. He can feel the throb of his cock, swelling against the soft line between stomach and hip. His nostrils flare and he lifts his head off the bed a fraction, unwilling to let go of the intrusion. His reaction draws an unexpected hiss from the man above, whose mouth parts in amazement.

Upon consideration, Graham slides the gun further in, more gently this time, so that Duncan can feel its hard edges glide across his tongue. He lets out a shuddering, pleased breath before Graham pushes it back further still.

Very suddenly, it’s impossible for him to properly breathe again, the barrel blocking air from escaping through his nose. The feeling of Graham’s power over him - it makes him squirm. Duncan lifts his chin up in encouragement. The shifting angle allows the gun to press a fraction of an inch deeper, which elicits a suffocated moan.

“I was glad when that attendant didn’t kill you,” he whispers, pulling the gun out once more and tracing it over Duncan’s lips. Duncan lays a wet, lazy kiss on the edge of the barrel as it rubs his spit over his face. “You didn’t deserve something so lacking in… intimacy.”

Duncan’s hands move up to Graham’s powerful thighs and twisting awkwardly - pinned as he is - he grabs at his ass. Graham shimmies down, freeing Duncan’s hands so he might adjust his grip and push Graham's hips forward, their groins pressing insistently into each other. Graham lets out a whimpered noise, then harshly drags the gun’s tip over Duncan's lip. He pulls it down further, travelling down his neck, over his rapid pulse, bumping when he drags over any one of Duncan’s various scars. Duncan’s nails dig into his ass through the fabric. Waiting. Wanting.

Graham falters for a second when the tip of his gun touches the the base of Duncan’s cock, seemingly caught up in the way it jumps at the contact. For a moment, there is uncertainty - something in the air that tells him Graham is going to back down. Without thinking, he lets out a small groan of frustration, pushes his hips up for more contact.

It's the right move, apparently.  Graham’s lips twist in sick pleasure as he lifts the gun and raps it down, tap tap tap across the edge of his cock. Duncan lets out a stuttering breath and squirms beneath the weight.

“What would you have done to me, if you could have?” he breaths out. He wants to spur him on, senses he’s still holding himself back.

Graham raps his length again, then grips his cock ungently to pull it up and expose his balls. He's gentler, here, but still every tap makes Duncan grind his teeth harder. Finally, Graham lets the gun fall heavy onto Duncan’s balls, hard enough that he spams in on himself. Graham keeps his cock in hand, the slight tug sending a flash of heat up his body. It’s pleasure, coated in sandpaper. Graham adjusts his hand and begins to stroke him, his grip firm.

“What would I have done? Exactly what I would need to do.” Graham replies. His hips tilt and the bases of their cocks press against each other through the thin fabric. The weight presses the gun down harder onto Duncan’s balls and he moans softly.

“It sounds like you let me have a great deal of power in our relationship,” Duncan ventures.

A sharp slap cracks through the silence of the cabin, and his whole body jerks in reaction to the sting across his cock. Graham doesn’t answer, instead peppering his genitals in smacks that make his cock flap around his belly. It hurts in the most sobering way.

When he’s done, he spits in his hands and traps the head of Duncan’s cock between his palms. He begins to move his hands in slow, circular movements, rubbing harshly against where he is most sensitive. Immediately, Duncan is electrified from the burn. His nostrils flare, but he keeps as still as he is able.

“Maybe things would have gone differently if I’d given up control, once in a while," he says breathlessly.

Graham’s face twists in a self-satisfied smirk. He lets go of Duncan and leans down, lips parted, as though he's hungry to taste him. Duncan is so wrapped up in the experience of having this man over him, having his body burn in a way that’s just shy of torture, that he completely misses the way Graham shifts until it is too late. His fist makes contact straight above the navel, the punch pushing well past the surface to make Duncan buckle in on himself.

Graham laughs at that - a satisfied, low noise - then slides off Duncan just enough to take his boxers off. Duncan opens his eyes to slits to catch sight of his reddened, thick cock. He groans, half from pain, half in appreciation, then twists so he can rip open a side drawer and pull out the small, nearly empty bottle of lube. The quick movements tear new pain through his body - his stomach, his head - and he returns onto his back with considerably more care.

Graham takes the bottle, squeezing the lube onto his cock until it shines in the dim light. He shifts Duncan up and squirts an inattentive amount over his hole. It's a welcome cold. Graham doesn't prolong prep, instead pressing insistently in to stretch him open. Duncan breathes through it, a half-smile playing over his lips.

They maintain eye contact until Graham is sheathed completely inside, and Duncan can begin to force himself to relax around him. There's little time to adjust though - Graham falls down onto him, his hand wrapping tight around his throat and begins to fuck him with quick, sharp jabs.

The hand around his neck isn't meant to incapacitate him, but the wirey strength of Graham's rage makes him unable to take much more than wheezing half breaths whenever he pulls back and his grip loosens a fraction. His head swims, a swelling purpling feelings making each hit he's taken to his face throb.

When he feels a bulging behind his eyes, when he can't breath more than a rasping sick wheeze, he's reminded of the gun below his head. His fingers clench and unclench as he decided what to do. Instead, he looks up at Graham and blinks, several times in quick succession. He’ll move if he has to, but he wants to get a sense of whether he might stop on his own. Or if he's too gone to control himself. 

The series of blinks registers with Graham, who lets go in a frustrated huff a few beats later.

“You’ve poisoned the well of my mind," Graham says between gasping breaths.  "It shouldn't matter if you are dead or alive.” He repositions his hands to hold down firmly around Duncan’s arms. Ten half-moon slivers claw into his skin.

He can glide in more smoothly, now that Duncan can open up around his cock. Graham shifts up again, maneuvering Duncan’s legs over his shoulders and up, until the change in position pushes out a low grunt of satisfaction from his lips.  

His back cracks as Graham folds hims over more with every quick fuck. The initial burn is replaced by a building pleasure. His cock hangs down onto his stomach, wet and heavy; the position of his legs prevent him from taking it in hand. It throbs from anticipating attention.

Neither speak for some time, each lost in a wave of sensation as Graham works himself along Duncan’s insides. The noises are amplified in the space, lude slapping and wet smacks again and again and again.

When Graham lets up somewhat on holding him folded over, it’s to slow his own pumping so that he might return to rubbing his weather-dried palms over Duncan’s cockhead. The feeling generates a thumping fog in his mind; he closes his eyes and falls into experiencing both the pleasure and the pain. Duncan moans openly at Graham’s rough touch and wiggles for more, as much as he is able folded over as he is.

“You’re such an intolerable, controlling, asshole.” Graham punctuates each insult with his cock, slamming a forceful _smack_ out with each thrust.

Duncan lets a low chuckle out at that; he doesn’t need to know his doppleganger to know that however intolerable and controlling he may have been, Graham wishes Hannibal had been  _his_  intolerableasshole.

“And incredibly unlucky, if he didn’t get to have this with you,” he says, finally shifting enough to move one leg down from Graham’s shoulder. He wraps his hand around Graham's grip to stop his unkind grind. Despite the pain - because of the pain, perhaps - he’s impossibly close. He doesn’t imagine Graham would take mercy on him just because he comes first; he wants to savor it.

Graham’s growling anger falters for a moment, as though he can see the real man below him again clearly. Concern radiates from him for the first time since he'd pushed Duncan onto the bed. Graham goes to take his hand away but Duncan doesn’t let him, instead encouraging him to wrap it around his pulsing length.

“Still okay?" Graham asks. He sounds ruined, conflicted. Duncan wonders if he could stop if he asked.

It doesn't matter. Duncan lets out an uninhibited smile, throws his head back as much as he is able to lose himself in the onslaught of sensation. He doesn’t answer, only nods again and again, pushing up his hips to offer himself for Graham's onslaught. 

He purposively contracts around Graham once, twice, holding the tight crush around his cock until Graham lets out a slow, unbelievable noise and Duncan can feel him pumping into him. As he comes, his hand grips roughly around the base of Duncan’s cock and it’s everything he can do to stop himself from letting out a pathetic sob from the jolt of pain that it shoots through him.

Graham is blissed out above him, but comes too enough to mercifully let him go. No hands on him at all is nearly worse though, and Duncan makes a rumbling noise of dissatisfaction. He doesn’t suppose Graham is going to give two shits about making him come, and that's okay. He closes his eyes against what he assumes will be the cresting wave of frustration.

Graham slips out, and the bed shakes with his movements. Duncan focuses on his breath to try to calm himself down. When he feels the wet, hot slide across his cock, his eyes shoot open.

“Alright?” Graham asks, more bashful than he’s been all evening.

Duncan unfolds himself. “Don’t feel obligated.”

Graham sighs, licking a long, hot stripe along the length of his cock. His stomach clenches in response. “I- I want to. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Duncan says, catching Graham’s gaze in his own. He smiles encouragingly, prompting a weaker mirrored response from the other man before he shifts his focus on taking him in deeply. The head of Duncan’s cock presses on the back of his throat; they both make a satisfied noise in tandem.

Duncan writhes and comes soon after, just as  Graham pulls himself back enough to catch his release in his mouth. When he sits up, Duncan can’t help let out an appreciative noise as he watches Graham's tongue slide out to lick up what had dribbled over his lips.

The cabin falls back into quiet, only the noises of their heavy breathing slowly returning to normal filling the space. When he’s sufficiently calm, Duncan shifts up to settle on his elbows. Graham averts his gaze away; doesn't move from his spot at the end of the bed. Duncan swings his legs over the bed, his back cracking again as he straightens up.

“So.” Graham begins, but doesn't seem to know what to say next. 

He closes his eyes, as if to prepare himself for another apology, so Duncan breaks in, “Another drink then? Before it’s my turn?”

Graham shoots his attention back to Duncan, his face blank as he processes the invitation. He lets out a noise, runs his hand through the mess of dampened curls before nodding his acceptance. “Yeah, alright."

They smile, half-selfconscious, half-pleased with the turn. 

Graham flops himself onto the empty bed. "I’m Will, by the way.”

“Will. Nice to meet you.” An adoring sparkle glints in his eye before he moves to grab their glasses.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter and pillowfort as trikemily - say hi if you'd like!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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